momentous

by haywardhelen

By the end of the afternoon, assuming all goes well, or even mostly well, my nest will be empty. The goldfish will circle their tank, wondering where my daughter is. Our dog will sniff her room, nudging her bedcovers in case she’s under them; longing for treats for playing dead and for scooting on the skateboard in the hall. My husband won’t know himself at not being teased at supper; no-one to tell him that his jacket is tucked into his trousers at the back, no-one to thrash him at cards.

‘She’ll be back at weekends’, my husband soothes. ‘Yes, yes’, I say. ‘But a thread has broken’, and I look at him knowingly.

I always knew that mothering wasn’t for ever, that one day I’d have to bow out and leave the main stage. Yet it was an abstract sort of knowing, easily deferred by being back-to-back busy, or by using a comfy conditional tense. Whereas now, counting down the hours before the bus leaves with my daughter on it, there’s no comfort to be had in deferral.

I’ve seen where my daughter will live; I’ve met some of the staff. On driving home from the campus last week I had to bite my tongue and push my sunglasses up my nose to prevent my daughter from noticing my tears. ‘Sometimes you win less than you lose’, was the song lyric that did me in, eyes on the road ahead, clocking up the miles and wondering what to cook for dinner.

I don’t want my daughter to go, yet sense that she needs to, even as it feels all wrong that she must. My heart rebels while my head accepts it. I know that my daughter needs to not need me, to make her mind up about life without me in the picture.

Where does this leave me? Rattling round a big old house wondering where all the years went? Shutting doors on empty rooms, circling our house like the goldfish in the tank, waiting for life as I’ve known it to resume? Texting my daughter needlessly to confirm my redundancy?

By what alchemical process did I become a walk-on part in my kids’ lives, no longer at the beck and call of whoever is in the next room; a move as seamless and reprehensible as the slip from present to past tense?

Whenever I take a plane flight I sit through the safety drill before take-off ninety-nine percent certain that I’ll never have to buckle up a life jacket and slide down a plastic chute to land on open water. Right now, seated gingerly on the edge of my near empty nest, I can feel the plane doors cracking open, cold wind rushing on to my face.

For years I told myself this would never happen. Only now do I see my mistake, and also how necessary my mistake was. A duvet, cutlery, bath towel and frying pan, thank you IKEA, sit packed into a bulging rucksack by the front door. The rucksack is real; it’s way too heavy to be a mistake.

No more endless laundry and snacks and pick-ups to organise my day around. No more hazy conversations in our parked car at dusk about possible futures. My freedom isn’t complete; work makes demands on me, my husband seeks company, our dog is active, and the house and garden never let up. And yet, and yet.

How I duck the main question, so big that it embarrasses me. How will I conceive of myself, after twenty years as the pivot around which my family swings, as just me? It’s not my identity I’m worried about; I know perfectly well who I am. It’s the way the woman I am has for so long meshed with my family relationships. Will this mesh dissolve, like stitches after surgery? Or will the weave slowly loosen?

How much time will have to pass before I start relishing – like the waitress in a local café suggested I would – there being less mess round the house? How many days will I awaken to before, rather than feeling bereft on waking, I feel grateful for a clear horizon?

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12 Comments to “momentous”

Very well said! All of your daughter’s new experiences are on the horizon, too — and guess who she’ll want to filter them through. There may be “less mess” but I’ve found all 4 times that there is never less child, and there comes a different but crucial Mom-ing to do, I think, along with a new self-ing.

Beautiful writing, thanks for sharing your journey, my girls are 12 and 6 and I grapple with their not so impending departure often, how to make sure I don’t dedicate myself too fully to them so I have nothing when they leave. I look forward to reading how things go for you. Yxx

You aren’t alone, 3 of my 4 have just moved out and although I still have 1 at home I’m going through similar emotions and thoughts.
The house feels huge, I went upstairs yesterday and that’s when it really hit, they are gone, my job is almost done. I knew this was coming, but it always seemed so far away, the time after active parenting was too hard to bring into focus and dream about. I hope to be one of those mothers who thrive and blossom when they are gifted this time to spend however they choose. I’ve just got to discover who I am and what I actually enjoy doing other than growing humans.
And who is this man that seems to live in my house. Lol.
Cheers Kate

Thanks, Kate. Nice to know I’m not alone! And you are right about not being able to prepare for this, and the say the looming possibility of absence becomes a reality overnight. And what about that man – and the world outside!

Thanks Helen, your point is valid and I suspect is a reflection of so many. I think it is unfortunate that not enough conversations occur between children/parents where the topic is perspective. Just start with very small amount of time we are actually alive. I suspect waking up one day saying where did the time go and feeling a little melancholy happens to us all. We need parents to demonstrate resilience, strength, creativity, problem solving and action. If our kids are surrounded by such traits they will probably become very comfortable in their own skin and new challenges will be exciting opportunities Parents can always fake it until you make it !! That’s not saying don’t be authentic, its just acknowledging learning new ways takes time and effort

Even as a chosen(step-)mom, it seemed even worse that I had only “had” my chosen daughter for six years before she flew out (and back again several times before the final decision to join the marines and gone for such long stretches of time.) I was almost jealous of her father’s chance to have her her whole life. Gradually it eases and she needs me in different ways. We just had a long conversation when she asked me about investing and savings ideas. I felt suddenly useful. My life is evolving with her newly gone, being newly retired and we built a new house, so our fairly young marriage is flourishing in new ways. My daughter amazes me with her brave choices and I know that in some way I helped her be able to make them. Helen, give yourself time and love. Hugs!